


The First Hunt

by Emlineth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Witcher Games, Pre-Witcher Novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29370699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emlineth/pseuds/Emlineth
Summary: Decades before the Northern Wars, a young witcher takes her first steps on her difficult and unenviable profession.Disclaimer: This story takes place in the world of the Witcher (Wiedźmin) created and owned by Andrzej Sapkowski.
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

The figure could be seen riding towards Golden Fields from more than a mile away. They wore a hooded black cloak on a black horse, both of which stood out in the afternoon sun as they crested one of the many hills which surrounded this small farming village. Golden Fields was not situated along any particularly busy road, and so the only visitors tended to be tax collectors and peddlers of goods that the villagers could not make themselves.

This traveller did not seem to be either, for taxes were usually collected in the form of a portion of the farmers’ produce and those that came for them would bring wagons just as the merchants would. There was no sign of a wagon behind the figure’s horse, however, and this drew the attention of the local peasants. Some of the villagers quickly ushered their playing children indoors as the stranger rode through while others watched from a distance with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

The horse stopped outside the tavern at the village centre. A worn wooden sign with a flower carved on it hung above the entrance, though no name was written on it; not that the residents would need any to remember it by, as it was the only such establishment in the vicinity and therefore held monopoly over the entire community. The black-cloaked figure dismounted, tying their horse to a post outside the tavern before stepping in.

At such an early hour, the tavern was quite empty. The innkeeper was in the midst of preparing a batch of beer when the stranger entered. Her attention, as well as those of the few patrons inside at the moment, instantly turned to the newcomer. The figure removed their black cloak and hung it upon a coat rack by the entrance. 

Even without the cloak, it was difficult to discern who the newcomer was. They wore simple, practical clothes of dark colours with a black leather jerkin and vambraces on top. The stranger was the height of a man, taller than some of the ones in the tavern, but had a physique similar to that of a woman- slightly wider at the hips and thinner along the waist. Their chest, however, was as flat as a man’s or a girl who had not yet matured, though a girl at such an early stage of development could not possibly be so tall.

The stranger’s face betrayed their youth, but far from young enough to be called a girl- perhaps a young man or woman in their early twenties, for the visage could conceivably have belonged to either. Their hair was cropped just below their ears and as dark as the colour of the cloak they had left behind, almost giving the impression that they still wore their hood. Without the cloak, the occupants of the tavern could also see that the figure carried a sword, which was not uncommon among travellers, but the stranger’s sword sat in a scabbard on their back as if it were an arrow in a quiver.

The innkeeper initially moved to greet the newcomer. As the figure walked towards the counter, she quickly stumbled back as she caught a closer look of the stranger’s face. Their brows were angular and gave them an intimidating gaze, but more far terrifying were the eyes. Despite the dilation of the pupils in the darker interior of the tavern, the yellow of the iris was still clearly visible. The stranger had the eyes of a cat, not those of a human.

Fortunately, the innkeeper did not have to deal with the stranger, as before they reached the counter, the door of the tavern swung open once again and three armed men walked inside. The first was middle aged, his age showing in both his face and his belly, and he carried an axe that was clearly meant for cutting wood rather than fighting. The second was a younger man around the age of the stranger, who wielded a pitchfork as a makeshift spear. The third was somewhere in between the two, but taller than both his friends and the outsider, though only slightly in the latter’s case. He was the only one of the three who had a proper weapon- an old but still serviceable sword.

“Leave ‘er alone you ruffian!” the young man shouted, trying to sound intimidating though the fear hidden behind was all too audible. The outsider turned to the three, but did not draw their own sword, though their right hand raised slightly in anticipation of having to do so.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” replied the stranger. The voice was that of a woman’s, but it was there was a hoarseness to it as if her throat had been lined with sandpaper. Looks of surprise crossed the faces of the three men, who had clearly been expecting something different.

The sword-wielding man broke the momentary silence, “Then tell us who you are and why you’ve come to our village.”

“My name is Alanna. And I'm only travelling through.”

“No one travels through Golden Fields,” the middle-aged man stated. “We’re not on a main road, an’ everyone who comes here’s got some business with us.”

“I was hoping to find work,” Alanna affirmed.

“Really?” asked the sword-wielding man. “And what work do you do? I can see you’re not a merchant, for you don’t come with a wagon.”

“I’m a witcher.”

“We don’t need no witches here!” the young man exclaimed.

“Not a witch,” the middle-aged man corrected his comrade. “A witcher. As in one of those monster-hunters?”

The woman nodded silently.

“You’re lying,” accused the sword-wielding man. “Only men can be witchers.”

Alanna’s brows furrowed as a slight hint of annoyance crossed her face. Coupled with movement from her hand, the three men tensed and gripped their weapons more tightly. The woman did not draw her blade however, and merely lifted a medallion hanging from her neck above the leather jerkin. It was of a bright silver colour and depicted a stylized image of a hissing cat’s head.

“I have this.”

“Even if I recognized that symbol as a witcher’s- which I don’t,” the sword-wielding man said, “that still doesn’t prove you’re a witcher. You could’ve picked it off some dead body, or maybe you’re a brigand who’s killed a witcher.”

“No ordinary human can best a witcher,” Alanna stated matter-of-factly.

“Is that the case? I’m the best fighter in this village and I lead the militia here,” the man pointed the tip of his sword at her. “This sword was passed down from my grandfather, who fought during Falka’s rebellion. If you can beat me, I might believe that you’re a witcher.”

The woman considered him for a moment, then nodded. The innkeeper, who had been watching this entire exchange from behind her counter, noticed the nod and promptly shouted, “Not in here! Take your fighting outside!”

The three men turned and headed back outside, with the militia leader glancing back to see whether Alanna would follow. She did, along with most of the patrons, who decided to leave their drinks where they sat to watch the rare moment of excitement in their quiet little hamlet. Outside in the village centre, a good number of residents had already gathered, some of them drawn by the arrival of the stranger, some by the three men’s response, and all of them watching with interest as their militia leader stood ready to fight the outsider.

“This is going to be a fair fight, understand?” the man demanded. “No spells or tricks of any sort.”

Alanna gave him another nod. Only now did she draw her blade, but she simply held it by her side, not bothering to adopt any form of ready stance which her opponent did. As the militia leader circled around her, all she did was turn to face him, waiting for him to make the first move as her cat eyes scrutinized every detail.

The duel was over a mere second after it began. The man lunged forward with his sword and Alanna deflected the blow, redirecting the blade away with her own. The militia leader did not even have time to process what happened next, let alone react to it. Before he knew it, the woman’s sword was at his neck, stopping just short of cutting his skin but close enough that he could feel the cold steel on the right side of his neck.

“I said no spells!” he snarled.

“I didn’t use any,” stated Alanna.

“Impossible. No one’s that fast.”

“A witcher is.”

The militia leader pushed Alanna’s sword away roughly with his forearm and promptly slashed his blade horizontally from her left, where her sword was not presently positioned. The woman spun away in a pirouette, swiftly evading the strike and ending up behind him, where she placed her blade on his neck again, this time the steel touching the left side.

The man growled in frustration as he turned around, swinging his blade diagonally down at the woman. Alanna leapt back, evading once again, the movement of her own sword an imperceptible flash of reflected sunlight to all those watching. When the militia leader brought his blade around for another strike, he noticed a thin red line down the back of his right hand, from which a light streak of blood gently began to trickle down. The villagers cheered.

Grunting, the militia leader thrust his sword into the dirt angrily, “Alright. You made your point.”

There was a slight hint of a smirk on Alanna’s face as she sheathed her sword behind her back once again. She did not even have to clean the blade, as it drew blood far too quickly for the blood to stain it. Around them, the villagers began to disperse. The two other armed men approached their leader, who waved them away without even looking at them.

The militia leader pulled his blade out of the ground, wiping the dirt off using a nearby rock before sheathing it as well. He turned his head as if about to leave, then, as if suddenly changing his mind, he looked back to the woman who had just bested him in combat.

“My name’s Banalt,” he introduced himself properly. “As I said, I lead the militia in Golden Fields. And I might have a job for you, Witcher.”


	2. Chapter 2

“My uncle’s ghost haunts these woods at night,” Banalt pointed to a grove of trees on the edge of a wide field. The field was farmland, like many such fields around the village, but it looked to be quite desolate in early spring, when the crops were only just starting to bud.

“You’re sure it is your uncle?” Alanna asked.

“Well, no,” admitted the militia leader. “I’ve never seen it up close myself. But my uncle died in these woods several years back. Eaten by a pack of wolves. They’ve grown more and more bold ‘round these parts of late.”

“Did anyone else die in the woods?”

“Not that I know of. Might have, long before my time.”

“And this ghost, it only appeared recently?”

“Yes. I started noticing it among the trees at night shortly after I took over the militia- after my uncle’s death that is. It’s not caused any trouble for us yet, but the militia isn’t equipped to deal with something like that if it does.”

Alanna nodded in understanding. Perhaps this ghost was harmless, but Banalt had offered to pay for its removal. A Witcher’s job was to kill monsters for those that paid for their services, and payment was something she needed.

“Ever seen it during the day?”

Banalt shook his head, “Only during nighttime.”

“We have time, then. I need to retrieve my equipment,” she said as she turned back towards the village.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Banalt replied as he headed off to go his own way. “Come to me when the ghost’s dealt with and I’ll give you your crowns.”

All of the villagers had returned to their day-to-day business, though they still glanced warily at the Witcher when she passed by. Cerbin, her black mare, was in the stable where Alanna had brought her before following the militia leader to the woods. She pulled back the blanket on the side of the horse to reveal a second sword with a V-shaped crossguard and a black corrugated hilt.

The Witcher removed the blade on her back, replacing it with the one she had just retrieved. The ghost was most likely an ordinary wraith, which meant that it would be sensitive to silver. The sword with the V-shaped crossguard was of course not pure silver, as such a blade would be far too soft to be practical, but it was coated in silver especially for use against monsters. Alanna also opened the saddlebag, taking out a few small vials which she stored in a satchel on her belt.

With her equipment in hand, Alanna made her way back to the grove, this time entering it instead of examining it from outside. It was still afternoon with a good hour or two before the sunset so the Witcher decided to scope out the woods first, gathering branches as she walked. She saw nothing of particular note; not that she expected to, as she sought only to familiarize herself with the field before the fight. Alanna did notice several figures standing by the field outside the woods but they were clearly peasants, possibly curious onlookers.

The onlookers left before long, likely to finish any business they still had for the day while the sunlight remained. As dusk began to creep in, the Witcher chose a spot in the grove and laid down the branches she had gathered earlier. She sat beside them, arranging some of the branches for a small campfire, then formed her hand into a complicated sign in front of them. The flames came to life suddenly rather than from a single spark, though Alanna still needed to shift the branches to ensure the flame spread to all of them.

As the sky darkened around her, Alanna remained by the fire, feeding it the occasional branch to keep the flames going. While she waited, her mind went over all the information she had been taught on wraiths, strategies for combating the monster and other creatures that a peasant may mistake for being a ghost in the case that it was not a wraith. If it was a nightwraith or some other variant, simply defeating it in combat may not be enough to rid the grove of its presence.

The Witcher considered the possibilities over and over again. She had never fought a wraith before. In fact, she had only fought one monster prior, a common ghoul during her trials not long ago. This was the first time she had walked the Path as a witcher, and though Alanna passed her training with less difficulty than some of her peers, she found herself rather lost without the wisdom of her instructors. Should she take a potion? Wraiths were fast for an ordinary person, but witchers were also fast. She was not even sure she would be able to vanquish it by killing it in battle; this may end up simply being a scouting run.

Such questions could only be answered with experience, and Alanna did not currently have the luxury of asking an experienced witcher for advice. She would simply have to figure this one out for herself and hope she survived to use the experience in any future encounters. That was who her instructors were, after all- witchers who survived years walking the Path by a combination of skill and luck. They all had the mutations and were theoretically capable of the same things. It was how they used their training and abilities that distinguished the old from the new.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the tang of metal. Alanna leapt to her feet, her right hand reaching over her shoulder as her left tugged the belt across her chest, moving the hilt of the sword up as she rapidly drew the weapon. The Witcher held the blade at the ready as she spun and looked around her. The pupils of her cat-like eyes dilated into little more than a slit, allowing her to see with clarity in the darkness of night. She spotted figures- more than one, moving towards her.

They were not wraiths. They were people, five of them, two with pitchforks, one with an axe, one a club and the last holding an old sword. Banalt. As they neared her, Alanna recognized one of the pitchfork-wielders as the young man from the tavern earlier, and the axeman as the middle-aged man that accompanied them. She remembered seeing the man with the club, who had a distinctive birthmark on his cheek, among the crowd who watched the duel, while the bearded man who also had a pitchfork was unfamiliar to her.

“Damn, she’s seen us coming,” one of them cursed.

“Maybe she really is a witcher,” said another. “Look at those eyes. Downright unnatural, they are. Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Alanna asked.

“The meaning of this,” came Banalt’s voice, “is that you made me look like a fool in front of everyone, Me, Banalt, leader of the Golden Fields militia, bested by some girl! You humiliated me! If you think I’m just going to let you ride off and leave the whole village to mock me for the rest of my life…”

“There never was a ghost, was there?”

“No, there never was,” Banalt shook his head. “You might be fast, but I bet you can’t take on all five of us.”

“Don’t do this,” warned the Witcher.

Banalt grinned devilishly and raised his sword, “Get her, boys!”

Alanna turned on the spot as the men began to close in around her, not facing any one of them so she would be prepared for a blow from any direction. The bearded man struck first, jabbing forward with his pitchfork. The Witcher parried the blow, but the range of the long farming tool made it difficult for her to reach him with a counterattack. Before Alanna could strike back, a second pitchfork came for her, its younger wielder taking the example of the bearded man and forcing the Witcher to parry again.

By the time she had turned away the young man’s pitchfork, the bearded man lunged once more, their blows giving her no opportunity to counterattack. Alanna knew that they could not keep up the coordination forever; these men were militia, peasants with no formal combat training who volunteered to protect their village, not soldiers. It was only a matter of time before one of them made a misstep and gave her an opportunity to strike.

One of the men did make a mistake, but it did not come from either pitchfork-wielder. While Alanna fended off the pitchforks, the axeman approached from behind, his axe poised to strike. He underestimated the senses of a witcher, however. Alanna stepped aside at the last second, evading both pitchfork and axe. The axeman lost his balance briefly as his swing went wide and the Witcher took full advantage of it. She swung her blade across the man’s thigh, intentionally avoiding any arteries as she did not seek to kill him.

The axeman stumbled and fell, clutching at his wounded leg. The young man stared at the sight but the bearded man struck again immediately. Alanna heard the other two closing in behind her as well, seeking to assist their injured friend. She turned away the bearded man’s pitchfork and then pirouetted around, swinging her sword in a wide arc to force Banalt and the clubman back. By instinct she followed up the pirouette with a back parry, just in time to protect herself from the young man as he regained his composure.

As Alanna expected, Banalt and the clubman did step out of the reach of her sword, meaning she was now also out of reach of their weapons. The axeman’s leg was injured and he probably would not be up so quickly, and she knew that the bearded man was to the young man’s right. With the positioning of everyone in mind, the Witcher pirouetted again towards the young man’s left, her sword spinning with her and cutting a gash on the man’s arm, once again avoiding any arteries.

Alanna parried behind her once again, though there was nothing to parry there this time. The young man yelped in pain, only barely managing to keep from dropping his pitchfork as his injured hand loosened its grip.

“Fall back!” Banalt called.

The peasants, although unskilled, coordinated better than Alanna gave them credit for. They may not have been soldiers, but they were capable hunters. The remaining four on their feet did not simply turn and run, but once again encircled her like they were hunting a wild beast. Banalt and the clubman backed away towards the edge of the grove, but the two pitchfork-wielders prodded her towards them. If they had ran away, Alanna would have let them go, but they gave her little choice as they fenced her in.

The Witcher closed the distance between herself and Banalt, seeking to take him and the clubman out of the fight quickly before dealing with the pitchfork-wielders behind her. The militia leader attempted to fend her off, but once again he was too slow. She retaliated with a slash to his right arm; the cut was not deep nor fatal, but it was enough to make Banalt drop his sword. She promptly evaded the club that came swinging at her and turned to face the clubman, but that was when everything went wrong.

Alanna felt something beneath her left boot that was far too even to be a branch or a stone. She leapt back before she even heard the first clang of the leghold trap activating, and it was only thanks to her witcher speed and reflexes that she managed to save her leg. The setting of the traps must have been the metal sounds that first alerted her to the militia earlier, and while she saw the men coming, the trap surprised her. Though she managed to avoid it, the reaction disrupted the flow of her movement. 

The clubman took advantage of this, swinging again just as she landed. The club struck her on her right shoulder and pain shot through her arm, causing her to lose her grip on her blade. The man followed by jabbing the end of the club at her stomach hard. Alanna fell to the ground as the wind was knocked out of her. She saw the two pitchforks coming at her, but they stopped before they struck as Banalt’s voice sounded.

“Don’t kill her yet! Hold her down!”

Banalt grabbed her right arm while the clubman grabbed her left, pressing them both against the ground to her side. The bearded man tried to approach, but Alanna raised a leg, kicking him in the shin. He stumbled and fell back and the younger man kept his distance while continuing to point his pitchfork at her.

“Feisty, aren’t you?” Banalt half-whispered beside her. “But I got you pinned down now. Girls like you shouldn’t be playing with swords. I’ll show you how to be a proper woman before you die.”

Alanna snarled at him. Banalt pressed his body against her as he drew a knife, cutting the straps on her leather jerkin. The Witcher struggled to push him off. She won’t let it end like this. No witcher dies in bed, and meeting her end on the Path was a fate she had long accepted would be hers. But not like this, used and humiliated by militia thugs. She won’t let it happen.

Banalt struck her in the face with a fist to stop her from struggling, then tore open her jerkin. She suddenly realized that though her left arm was completely immobilized, the militia leader only kept one hand on her right elbow while he worked away at her clothes with the knife in the other. Alanna could not raise her right arm, but she could move her hand and fingers. She quickly drew the sign of Axii in the air towards the young man who still stood close by with his pitchfork ready.

“Kill him!” she shouted. “Kill Banalt!”

“One more word and I’ll-”

The militia leader never finished. The young man repositioned his pitchfork and stabbed it into Banalt’s side. His eyes went wide in surprise as blood flowed from his mouth, and his hold on her right elbow loosened. She yanked her arm free, and wasting no time, grabbed Banalt’s other hand with the knife still within. She moved the fist and knife together, plunging the entirety of the short blade into the neck of the clubman who held her left arm.

“What the hell’s going on?!” she heard the bearded man shout.

The young man had awoken from the brief trance that the sign induced upon him and he let go of the pitchfork still embedded in the militia leader, staring in horror at what he had just done. Alanna pushed Banalt off her and seized the club, jumping to her feet as quick as she could. The bearded man soon realized what had occurred and charged forward with his pitchfork.

“You’ll pay for this you witch!” he shouted.

The Witcher could have parried or evaded, but she was done holding back. She wrapped her free arm around the young man’s neck, holding him in front of herself. The charging man halted his momentum as soon as he could, but by then it was too late. Alanna let go and dashed aside in case the tines penetrated the body, then swung the club at the bearded man’s abdomen while he tried to dislodge his pitchfork.

The blow sent the man onto the ground and he frantically tried to scamper back. Alanna advanced slowly, her face contorted with anger, the yellow eyes focused on her target like a predator about to pounce.

The bearded man began to beg as he regained his breath, “P-please...please don’t-”

His pleas turned into a howl of pain as Alanna roared with rage and brought the club down hard on his right hand. His other hand shot over to cradle his injured one and the club came again, this time for his left forearm. The man screamed, their voices intermingled as Alanna continued to roar and swing at his ribs. The man went silent as he spat blood.

The Witcher did not stop. She struck, again and again, more ferocious with every blow. Hot blood splattered over her face and clothes. The club splintered and broke in her hands. Her voice became even hoarser than it already was until her roars were barely croaks. When the rage finally began to subside, Alanna noticed the axeman standing amidst the bodies, clutching his injured leg and trembling dumbstruck. His axe was nowhere to be seen, and he must have left it by the campfire.

She did not know how long he had been standing there. His vision was far from as adept at seeing in darkness as hers, but he could no doubt see their outlines in the moonlight. The man’s terrified expression, on the other hand, was all too visible to the Witcher. Finding her sword in the grass, she stood and retrieved it, walking towards the last man. He did not even try to resist or beg. He had resigned to his fate. With a single swipe of her blade across his neck, she severed his carotid artery and finished him.

There was no point in trying to hide the bodies. The blood and other marks of fighting were all too visible. Alanna simply sheathed her sword and, with the belt securing the scabbard to her back severed along with the fastenings of her jerkin, carried the blade in hand as she made her way to the stable. Silently, she readied her horse and returned the sword to the side of the saddle, retrieving her steel one which fortunately came with its own scabbard and another belt. The Witcher left the town of Golden Fields under the cover of night, never to return again.


	3. Chapter 3

The Witcher had been travelling for three days since the incident in Golden Fields. She did not regret killing these men, not at all. They deserved every bit of what they got, and Alanna thought the world was a better place without their presence in it, but she was also afraid- afraid of any potential repercussions. After her rage subsided, she had suddenly become very aware that no one else knew what happened in the glade and as a stranger, it would be all too easy for whoever found the bodies to lay the blame on her.

She knew that the village was a rather remote place, but she did not know how fast news would normally spread from such a place, and whether this news would catch the attention of any authorities. It was unlikely that someone would seek her out; even had she not killed the militia leader and most if not all of his men, the militia existed to protect the village, not hunt people down. Soldiers, meanwhile, probably had something better to do than hunt one woman.

However, Alanna could not be sure of her assumptions. Once again, she found that she simply did not have the experience to make a judgement. To be safe, she decided to head south towards the Pontar River which marked the border between Redania and Temeria. There was no chance that Redanian authorities would be able to pursue her into Temeria, and Temerian authorities would not care for what happened in a Redanian village. And so for the last three days, Alanna rode southwards, often camping by the road and living off the land.

Now, she sat in a roadside inn near the town of Nevolk. The Witcher occupied a small table in the corner by herself, and while most of the other patrons were eating at this hour, she had a single tankard of ale on her table. She had come to the inn because an unexpected cold spell had arrived and she sought a warm room to shelter in. Unfortunately, the few coins she had set out with were dwindling rapidly, and she had been focused on making ground towards the border rather than finding work. Alanna could not afford to spend on food, and it would not be long before she had no choice but to camp outdoors.

She had decided to indulge in one tankard of ale to quench her thirst before she went to sleep. It was cheap ale, but Alanna still attempted to make it last for as long as she could, drawing from the tankard in small, slow sips. As she drank, she suddenly realized that several other patrons were regarding her with what appeared to be suspicion. Perhaps choosing the table in the corner, while making her more difficult to spot, only made her more conspicuous to those who noticed her.

Alanna considered taking the tankard up to her room, but before she had even made up her mind, a man rose from a table in the centre of the establishment and strode over towards her direction. The Witcher looked up from her drink, examining the man as he was walking. He wore simple commoner’s clothes, as did the ones he shared his table with, and they did not seem to be soldiers or travellers. The approaching man did not carry a weapon either; given that the Witcher’s sword was on full display behind her back, it was unlikely he came to cause trouble.

That reassured her, and she spoke with a cold voice that gave no hint of emotion, “What do you want?”

The man paused mid-step. He probably expected her to have a different voice, much like the militia in Golden Fields. His eyes swept down over the Witcher, then back up to her sword before finally meeting her gaze.

“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?” he inquired. “You hunt monsters for a living?”

Alanna gave a single nod in response to his question.

“You...looking for a job?”

“You have one for me?”

It was the man’s turn to nod. He moved in closer, motioning to one of the empty chairs around Alanna’s table.

“May I?”

“Go ahead.”

The man pulled back a chair and sat himself down opposite the Witcher. He adjusted his tunic slightly before looking across to her. Alanna was prompted to adjust her own leather jerkin; she had given it the most patchwork of repairs on the road so that it could actually close, but it did so rather lopsidedly. 

“My name’s Dusmund,” he introduced himself after a brief moment of silence. “Everyone usually calls me Dusty.”

“You can call me Alanna.”

“It’s fortunate you came here when you did, Alanna, real fortunate.”

“Tell me about your problem.”

“We got a werewolf in Nevolk,” Dusty explained. “The first attack was about a month and a half ago on Mitsch’s farm. One of the cows was dragged off to the forest. Three weeks after that, I wake up to noises in the middle of the night and see the beast dragging off one of mine.”

“What makes you think it’s a werewolf?” the Witcher interrupted with a question.

“I ran outside with a torch and an axe and saw the silhouette of the beast. Didn’t see it up close but I can tell you it’s bigger than a wolf. And we had trouble with wolves ‘round here before, so we all know what a wolf attack looks like. This beast’s prints had five claws. Not four like a wolf- five, like how many fingers and toes a man’s got.”

Alanna tried to think back to her studies of monsters, specifically that of therianthropes. She knew they had the intelligence of humans and the senses of wolves, recalled the techniques she should use to fight them and that they were affected by silver. She could even visualize the image of a werewolf in one of the texts she had read, an image that according to her instructor Tudach had been accurate to the lycanthropes he encountered. However, Alanna could not remember the detail of how many digits the werewolf had in that image. It made sense to her that a lycanthrope would still have five digits after their transformation though, so she nodded.

“Anyways, a week and a half after that, it struck again, this time one of Old Raife’s bulls,” continued Dusty. “Accursed thing’s developed a taste for beef! The next morning, Raife’s sons followed the blood trail into the forest and found the half-eaten carcass, but they ran off when they heard a roar and saw something big among the trees.”

“The beast makes its lair in the forest, then,” Alanna commented, setting down the tankard which she had slowly been sipping from as she listened. “And it doesn’t seem to change back in the daytime. It’s unlikely to be someone from your town, or at least someone who still lives there.”

“That’s what I was thinking too. We cattle farmers asked around after the first two attacks. Talked to just about everyone in the town, and got no evidence that someone might have a werewolf in their family. What Old Raife’s sons saw pretty much confirmed that.”

“Did you set any traps?”

Dusty nodded, “We set some snares ‘round our pens, but the beast hasn’t triggered any yet.”

“A werewolf might be intelligent enough to avoid them, but they could still be useful,” the Witcher noted.

“So you’re taking the job, then? You’ll help us, Alanna?”

“How much are you paying?”

“Forty crowns,” stated the cattle farmer.

“Forty crowns? For a werewolf?” Alanna may have been new to the trade, but she was fairly certain a lycanthrope normally fetched a higher price.

“We cattle farmers don’t have too much in the way of spare crowns. We’ve got families to feed, and Mitsch, Raife and myself have already lost cattle on top of that. Several of us put together a fund to hire somebody to deal with the beast.”

“And if the beast keeps feeding unchecked, you’re going to lose more than forty crowns worth of cattle,” Alanna stated. “It might even take someone from your family one day.”

“I’ll put in two extra crowns out of my own pocket and I’ll see if I can ask the others to offer a bit more, but I can’t promise anything.”

Forty-two crowns, perhaps more. It would do. Alanna needed the coin; in case someone was looking for her, she did not plan on openly announcing herself as a witcher until she reached Temeria, and her purse was likely to be empty before then. Dusmund had recognized her as a witcher nonetheless and offered her a job that she very much needed. She would not turn him down, but she thought of one more thing she could ask for.

“I don’t plan to face the beast in its own lair. It knows the land there and it’s going to smell me coming. You said it seems to have developed a taste for cattle. I’ll wait by your farms, it’s only going to be a matter of time before the beast strikes again. Which means I’ll need lodging.”

Her plan was counter to what she had initially intended- to make for the Temerian border as quickly as possible. Alanna was fairly confident that no one was pursuing her, and if someone intended to, it was likely she had outrun the spread of news from Golden Fields with the distance she had made in the last three days and had time to spare. More importantly, she knew that no other witchers, at least from her School, had departed their caravan towards this region. These farmers needed help and it was unlikely for another witcher to come upon Nevolk before many more cattle or perhaps even people were taken by the beast.

“You can stay at my home until the beast's dealt with,” Dusty agreed. “We’ll set out a corner for you. I'll take you there whenever you're ready.”

“I paid for a room in the inn.”

“The beast might strike tonight. I know the innkeeper, we’re all locals here. I’ll see if I can get you your coins back.”

“Thank you,” the Witcher took a larger drink from her tankard than before as she prepared to depart soon.

Dusty stood from the chair, glancing at the innkeeper briefly before he turned back to Alanna, “We have a deal?”

The Witcher gave a single nod.


	4. Chapter 4

Pain flooded across her like a wave washing over her, if that wave was made of lava. No, not over- inside her. It felt as if acid were running through her veins and every nerve in her body flared up in agony. Her hands clenched and she tried to curl up, but she was tied down firmly in place, unable to move, utterly powerless against the torment she was subjected to. She screamed.

Alanna startled awake with a gasp. Her eyes shot open, finding the visage of a thirty-something woman staring down at her. She blinked slightly, then quickly recognized the woman as Magda, the wife of the cattle farmer Dusmund.

“You must have had quite a dream, Witcher,” said Magda. “Everything alright?”

She nodded, looking over to the window. The light was starting to wane outside, which meant it was dusk. Alanna did not sleep upon returning to Dusty’s home the evening before. She kept watch through the night, as the beast always seemed to strike when it was dark. It did not appear that night and Alanna had gone to sleep in the morning on a small straw pile the family had laid out for her in a corner, complete with a straw-stuffed pillow.

“Look at you. You’ve worked up quite a cold sweat,” the woman remarked. “C’mon, let’s get you washed up so you don’t catch a chill.”

“That’s not necessary,” Alanna shook her head. “Witchers don’t catch chills.”

“Witcher or not, you’re still human, and I don’t know a single human who prefers being all sweaty and dirty to being nice and clean. And you look, and smell, like you haven’t bathed for days!”

“That’s really not necessary. You’ve already given me food in addition to the lodging, which is more than I asked for. I don’t want to intrude-”

“Nonsense!” Magda interrupted. “The husband’s off drinking with his friends. This is the only time you’re going to get some privacy and it’s too cold to bathe outdoors, so I insist!”

Alanna sighed and caved, “Alright.”

The other woman beamed happily in her victory, “We’ll prepare the tub. Johun! Come give your mother a hand!”

A boy twelve or thirteen years of age stood up reluctantly to help Magda, while an even smaller girl no older than ten sat at a table, playing with wooden figurines. Alanna could tell that the children were scared of her, especially the young girl whose name she learned was Tilda only through her mother. Their parents, however, had been kind to her, much more than she expected. Perhaps it was because she was doing a job for them, or perhaps some people were just kind.

Outside of her fellow witchers, Alanna had not interacted much with other people since she began her training, and the witchers were far from typical people. Tudach had always said that the dh’oine, as his people called humans, were all rotten at heart and not to be trusted. Of course, he was not free from bias; his people, for he was one of the few elven witchers, had either been driven out of their lands or forced to assimilate by the humans, and it was widely known that he preferred to take contracts from members of the Elder Races than humans. Still, the incident in Golden Fields had made Alanna think that perhaps Tudach was right.

“Tub’s ready!” Magda’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She must have been lost in them for longer than what it felt like.

“Johun, go outside and check on the snares before the sun sets. Make sure they’re all still set,” the woman instructed her son. “And be careful!”

The behaviour of this family, on the other hand, had made her doubt Tudach. Untrustworthy humans certainly existed, there was no doubt of that after what Banalt had done, but perhaps it was unfair to judge the entire species based on one bad experience and the word of one elf.

“You don’t have to,” Alanna tried to tell the boy before he ran off. “I can do it my-”

“Go and do as your mother says!” the woman cut her off, waiting until Johun was outside before turning to the Witcher with her hands on her hips. “What’d you think I was doing, getting the boy to take over your job? I’m giving him something to do outside so it’s only us women in here when you strip naked for the bath!”

“Oh,” replied Alanna, managing to conceal her reaction better than she expected thanks to the mutations of her blood vessels that made her unable to blush, though the embarrassment was still audible in the tone of her voice.

“Well what’re you waiting for? Strip!”

The Witcher did as suggested, quickly undressing and stepping into the tub while the water was still warm. As she bathed, Magda retrieved a second pot of water she was heating over the fire, pouring some in to retain the temperature. Alanna gave her a nod of thanks and the woman set the pot back on the fire before roaming over to where the Witcher’s clothes were placed.

“I thought that vest of yours looked off when I first saw you last night” Magda observed as she raised the leather jerkin. “Buckles all broken, and you did a poor job patching ‘em. Looks like they've been cut.”

“They were.”

“By a monster with razor-sharp claws?”

“No,” the Witcher replied simply.

“I suppose a monster won’t have just gone for the buckles, and I don’t see marks anywhere on the leather,” the woman turned her gaze back to Alanna. “They were cut by a knife, weren’t they?”

Alanna gave a silent nod of confirmation.

“You poor girl. Are you alright? They didn’t-”

The Witcher shook her head. She did not wish to discuss the topic; she had no idea how the woman would react if she found out what had occurred at Golden Fields. It was possible that Magda would sympathize with her; she certainly seemed sympathetic now, but Alanna was also very aware that she was a stranger here just like she was back at Golden Fields. If the townspeople in Nevolk found out what she had done, she was afraid they would grow wary of her, reconsider offering her the job or even chase her out of town.

“I hope you drove ‘em off and gave ‘em a good thrashing in the process,” Magda continued.

Seeing that the woman was not about to give up the subject, Alanna sighed again, “I killed them.”

“Good!” Magda exclaimed, much to Alanna’s relief and somewhat to her surprise. “They picked on the wrong girl and got what was coming to ‘em.”

“No one else saw what they were trying to do. It was just me and them in the middle of a grove at night.”

“Don’t you worry,” the woman gave her a reassuring smile. “If somebody’s looking for you, they won’t learn you’re here from me. I’ll keep quiet about it.”

“You will?” the Witcher asked, the surprise now visible in her expression.

“You got my word. I don’t care what anyone else makes of it, what you did was a favour to the world. Men like those deserve no less than the gallows.”

Alanna smiled back, “Thank you.”

Magda returned to the fire, bringing the pot once more and pouring the rest of the contents into the tub. The Witcher’s yellow eyes followed her as she set the pot aside and took the jerkin again, this time bringing it over to a table.

“What’re you doing?”

“What else, fixing it up for you!” Magda responded incredulously. “You can’t go out wearing something with barely any buckles.”

“I need it tonight,” stated the Witcher.

“Fine,” the woman huffed. “But let me fix it for you tomorrow, while you’re sleeping.”

“You really don’t have t-”

“I insist!”


	5. Chapter 5

The beast appeared on the third night. The Witcher was patrolling the farmsteads on the edges of Nevolk when she spotted a large shape emerging from the forest. Though her eyes were unimpeded by the darkness, the beast was far away and she could not make out precisely what it was, only that it was clearly larger than a wolf. It prowled towards one of the cattle pens and she knew this was the culprit behind the attacks.

The Witcher drew her silver sword, approaching the creature cautiously. As she got closer, it became obvious to her that the beast was not a werewolf. It was a bear- not a werebear, but an ordinary, fully-grown grizzly. Alanna cursed silently; the bear was no therianthrope and thus had no weakness against silver. There was no time to change weapons, not if she wanted to prevent it from reaching its next meal.

Alanna kept her eyes on the beast as she walked between the pen and the forest. The grizzly noticed her and stopped in its tracks, taking a moment to assess the threat. Alanna came to a stop as well once she reached her chosen location, turning to face the bear with her sword held casually at her side. The two hunters stared at one another before the bear charged. 

The Witcher spun and ran, though not out of fear. She was tense; this was her first hunt out on the Path after all, but the beast was something Alanna was confident she would be able to handle. She ran because she knew that as a predator natural to the world, she had a chance of intimidating it if she stood her ground. By fleeing, she would appear to be prey instead of danger, and as expected, the bear chased after her.

This was precisely what she wanted. This time, she was aware of the presence of leghold traps and looked for them as she sprinted through the grass, intentionally passing close to one. The grizzly followed not far behind her. Its front legs missed the snare but its rear left paw stepped into it, the weight of the large creature causing it to spring shut, abruptly halting its charge. The bear cried in pain.

Alanna did not let the creature suffer long. As soon as she heard the trap close, she spun back around, slicing her sword across its front left leg, aiming for an artery. The bear raised its other, uninjured leg to strike at her, but the Witcher was too fast. She pirouetted away from the paw, flipping her weapon to a backhanded grip mid-turn. Setting her left hand on the pommel of the sword, she used the momentum of the pirouette and the strength of both hands to plunge the blade into the grizzly’s neck.

The Witcher promptly leapt back, letting go of her sword and leaving it embedded in case the bear counterattacked. The precaution proved unnecessary as the creature was already too weak. She watched as the life drained away from the grizzly. Alanna felt no accomplishment from what she had just done; it was not a difficult fight, especially with the aid of the snares. The only thing she felt was pity for the beast in its last moments. All it was doing was feeding itself, living its natural life.

She supposed that was the way the world was- hunt or be hunted. The bear did not hesitate to chase her and would not have hesitated if it had the chance to kill her. Years of training had ensured that there was no hesitation in her either. As soon as the grizzly charged, Alanna knew what she had to do and she simply went through the motions without even thinking. Now that the deed was done though, she felt a slight pang of regret as she gazed upon what remained of the once-proud predator.

“I’m a hunter too,” she reminded herself silently. “I may not consume the meat on the bear, but I need the coins from killing it.”

Alanna retrieved her weapon once the bear was completely still. She began to wipe the blood off the blade when she heard a noise in the distance behind her. The Witcher turned around to see a man emerging from a nearby homestead with a lit torch in hand, probably the cattle farmer whose pen the beast would have taken from today had she not intervened. He made his way over to the body of the beast and Alanna walked towards him as well, the two meeting at a midpoint.

“The beast- it’s dead?” the man asked.

The Witcher nodded, “It’s dead. It was heading towards your pen there, and I’m fairly certain it’s the same one responsible for the other attacks.”

“Thank you, miss, thank you! You’ve saved our cattle.”

“Coin will be thanks enough. Just make sure the payment is ready. I’ll be at Dusty’s place.”

With that, Alanna headed back to Dusty’s house. She picked a sizable leaf off a nearby bush she passed to finish cleaning her sword. Once she was satisfied, she examined the blade and frowned upon seeing the marks on the edges. Parrying the attacks of the militiamen at Golden Fields had taken their toll on the sword, and while the weapon was still serviceable, it meant that she would need to have it repaired sooner rather than later.

This was the disadvantage of a silver sword; though it was made to be as sharp as any good sword, the silver that coated the blade, an expensive material, was much more easily damaged than steel. That was why witchers used only them against enemies vulnerable to silver, and Alanna had foolishly wielded it yet again to fight a beast that silver offered no advantage against. At least the confrontation with the bear had been short and efficient and did not appear to have left any further marks on the weapon.

The Witcher sheathed the sword and entered the homestead quietly to avoid waking the family. Even without candlelight, she made her way to her corner without knocking into anything. Alanna unslung the leather strap along with the sword attached to her back and removed her leather jerkin with the newly fixed buckles, laying both down on the ground. Then, kicking off her boots, she laid down on the hay, pulling the blanket over herself. Before long, she drifted off to sleep- a quiet, blissful sleep she had not known since setting out on the roads.

She was not sure how long she slept for, but her rest was rudely interrupted by a voice. As her senses gradually returned to her, she realized it was the voice of Dusmund, and that it was directed at her. She rubbed her eyes and turned to the direction the voice was coming from.

“What is it?”

“It’s...it’s the others,” Dusty stammered. “The other cattle farmers.”

“Did something happen?” Alanna sat up from the hay, a hint of concern crossing her face.

“No, no, they’re fine. It’s just that they’re, well...they’re refusing to pay.”

“What? Why?”

“They say that the payment’s for killing a werewolf, not a bear,” he explained.

The Witcher scowled, “The payment was for getting rid of the beast that’s been taking your cattle, and I’ve dealt with the beast.”

“Don’t tell me that, tell them that!”

“You’re contributing to the fund as well, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but I’m willing to pay my part of it! It’s the others that won’t pay.”

Alanna stood, hastily putting her jerkin and sword strap back on. She did not intend to use her weapon, but her instructors had always advised her to wear the blade on her back whenever she could as it made her recognizable as a witcher and also made those who sought trouble with her think twice. She hoped that the presence of the sword could help her in convincing the farmers to pay.

“They’re still by the corpse of the beast, if you’re looking for 'em,” Dusty said as she gathered her equipment.

The Witcher exited the house without a word, taking long strides towards where she had slain the bear but not quite running. Dusty hurried after her, having to break into a slight jog to catch up. It did not take the two long to reach where the body of the grizzly lay, around which a number of other men had indeed gathered, including the one that rushed outside his home the night before.

“Witcher!” one of them greeted her as she approached. “So you got the beast.”

“I did,” Alanna nodded. “And I don’t work for free.”

“We promised to pay you for a werewolf,” said another cattle farmer, pointing to the corpse of the bear with a goad. “This is not a werewolf.”

“There is no werewolf. You’re paying me to kill the beast that was feeding on your cattle. This bear is it. It was heading for that pen there before I stopped it.”

“Before my snare stopped it!” the man Alanna recognized from the night before corrected her.

“I lured it into the snare,” argued the Witcher. “Yes, it may have set one off on its own eventually, but you hired me and I did my job.”

“You still should’ve known it wasn’t a werewolf,” the farmer with the goad said. “We’ve never had bears or werewolves ‘round these parts, but you’re a witcher- you’re supposed to know about these things. If you told us what we’re dealing with, we would’ve just hired any old hunter!”

“The tracks were already long gone by the time I got here, but it doesn’t matter. You hired me to get rid of ‘the beast.’ If you look at its paws now, I’m sure it’ll match the prints of the creature that was taking your livestock.”

“She’s right,” the man from the night before spoke again. “The tracks we saw before do look like they came from this bear’s paws.”

“The Witcher solved our problem,” Dusty joined in as well. “Sure, maybe we would’ve hired someone else if we knew it wasn’t a werewolf, but we’d still need to pay a hunter.”

The man with the goad shook his head, “We wouldn’t have had to pay this much!”

“She still deserves something though,” asserted Dusty.

“Fine. We’ll pay her half,” suggested the farmer who first greeted Alanna. “We’ll give her twenty crowns.”

The men looked around at one another, nodding and agreeing with the idea. The goad-holding man nodded last and with a reluctant expression. With his concession, one of the farmers took out a pouch, shaking some of the coins from it.

Alanna took a step towards the man with the pouch, but her gaze jumped from one farmer to another, “We had a deal. I kept my end of it. Your cattle and your livelihoods are safe. Your end of the deal was forty crowns, not twenty.”

“We promised you forty because we thought it was a werewolf,” the man countered. “We thought it was a cursed beast, not a natural one. A bear’s not worth that much.”

“A fully-grown grizzly bear can be-”

Alanna paused when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She moved to shake it off but stopped when she saw that it was Dusty, deciding to hear him out.

“I’m sorry we thought it was a werewolf,” he said. “That was our mistake. But twenty crowns is still more than any hunter would get for some bear. Just take the offer and go, I don’t think I can talk ‘em into paying more, and it’s better than nothing.”

The Witcher nodded and turned her attention back to the man with the pouch, giving him a glare that was as sharp as her blade. The farmer quickly counted the coins in his hand, tossing two back inside before holding it out towards her with a nervous gulp. She grabbed the pouch and, without another word, spun around and stormed off.

A gentle breeze blew across her face, carrying with it the scents of spring. Her head began to clear as she walked, and Alanna realized that in truth, she was more upset with herself than she was with the cattle farmers. Once again, her lack of experience had proved problematic. She was fortunate that it ended well this time- she was given food and a roof to sleep under for the past three days, had her clothes fixed, and still received some payment for a job that was not at all difficult. Certainly, there were worse mistakes that she could have made, ones that would have cost her life.

With her mood greatly improved, she returned to Dusmund’s home and gathered up what belongings she still had there, bidding Magda and the children farewell. Then, the Witcher took her horse from the stable and set out on the road once more, keeping in mind to investigate her quarry carefully in the future.


	6. Chapter 6

Alanna encountered her first proper monster on the Path quite by accident. She departed Nevolk for the city of Rinde on the northern bank of the Pontar, where she intended to cross the river into Temeria. By the time she arrived at Rinde a day and a half later, the sun had just set and the guards refused to open the gates. The temperature had warmed considerably over the past few days, and Alanna decided it was just as well for her to camp outside the city and save her coin.

The Witcher chose a spot near the riverside that had a few trees, allowing her to tie her horse to one of them. She noticed a flickering flame further down by the river, probably fishermen who stayed out late into the evening as those were often the best hours to catch fish in spring. It was unlikely for bandits to have set up so close to the city, but Alanna still veered near the light to check as she collected branches for her own campfire. Her supposition was confirmed when she saw two figures seated on rocks next to the river with fishing rods and baskets by them.

With branches in hand, Alanna returned to where she had left her horse and lit her own fire. She had gotten the flames going for a few minutes when her sharp hearing picked up panicked shouting coming from the direction of the river. Alanna jumped to her feet instantly, drawing the sword from her back and running towards the other campfire.

As she approached the river, she noticed that the fishermen were no longer alone. On the shore with them were four creatures that looked like humans at first glance, except they wore no clothes, exposing their scaly blue skin glistening with water. A long line of what appeared to be fins ran down the length of their spine and their hands, though also roughly human, had fingers with webs between them which ended in long, sharp claws. The Witcher recognized them instantly as drowners.

The monsters snarled like feral beasts. Two had grabbed one of the fishermen and were pulling him towards the water while the second fisherman attempted to fend off the other two by swinging a fishing rod wildly. One of the drowners charged and the fisherman struck it, doing absolutely nothing to slow its advance. The rod simply snapped against the monster and the fisherman turned to run away, but by then it was too late to flee.

The drowner lunged forward and swiped a clawed hand before the fisherman even had a chance to run, but the claws never reached him. The Witcher’s blade sliced downwards in a powerful two-handed blow, severing the monster’s arm at the elbow. It roared in pain and leapt back, allowing its friend to close in and attack. Alanna was ready for it. She pirouetted about, evading its claws and swinging her sword at neck height, cutting down the monster in one blow. Then, quickly switching the direction of her blade, the Witcher finished off the second drowner with another slash.

She immediately turned to the two remaining drowners, who had already pulled the other fisherman into the shallows. Alanna sprinted towards them, forming her fingers into the sign of Aard. The invisible force that shot from her hand knocked both drowners and the fisherman off their feet, sending the trio crashing into the water with a great splash. The Witcher used the time to close the distance, and when she saw that the drowners had not yet recovered, took the opportunity to drive her blade through the chest of the one that was beginning to get up.

This proved to be a mistake. The last drowner grabbed her ankle and she had no time to retrieve her sword. Alanna could only stomp the monster on the head with her other foot, hoping to daze it. The drowner simply roared and responded with a swipe of its other hand. The Witcher moved the foot she used to kick the drowner out of the way, but her other leg was being held firmly in place. The claws tore through her trousers and left several cuts along her calf.

Alanna yelped, not from the pain but due to the drowner pulling hard on her ankle. With her other leg still in mid-motion from avoiding the swipe, she lost her balance and fell hard on her back. She barely had time to catch her breath, as the monster took hold of her other leg as well and dragged her deeper into the water, submersing her entirely. Alanna sat up, though she managed only to draw half a breath when the drowner pounced onto her, pressing both its hands on her shoulders and holding her down.

The Witcher tried to form another Aard sign, but in her desperation and having been spent by the previous sign, she did little more than send a splash of water up at the drowner. She punched the monster to little avail; it persisted, holding her down in the water. She tried to pry the drowner’s arms off and was not strong enough; her energy was fading with the oxygen left in her lungs. Bubbles of air rose from her mouth to the surface of the river as she struggled for breath.

That was when her fingers felt it- a rock, small enough to lift but large enough to be quite heavy. Alanna immediately closed her hand around the rock and slammed it against the drowner’s head. It jerked to the side and its hold on her weakened. She swung again and the drowner was weak enough for her to throw it off.

Alanna bolted from the water, taking a deep breath. This however gave the drowner time to recuperate as well. It shook off the dizziness and swung an arm at her again. The blow landed on her back and the leather vest held up, the claws leaving a mark on the leather but not penetrating it. The Witcher promptly turned around and slammed the rock across the drowner’s jaw. Then, with the strength of both hands, she brought the rock down on its head one final time, caving in the monster’s skull. It twitched, let out a sickening gurgle from beneath the water, and went still.

Standing up and tossing the rock aside, Alanna made her way to the drowner that still had her sword embedded in it. She yanked the blade from its body, rinsing it in the river before returning it to its sheath. As the adrenaline of combat wore off, she began to feel the cuts on her leg. Alanna winced with pain, limping back to the shore where the two fishermen awaited by their campfire.

The man who had been grabbed by the drowners was easily distinguished from the other by his tattered, blood-stained shirt, which was torn by the monsters’ claws. He sat on a boulder, with his friend looking over his injuries. The unhurt fisherman stood as he saw Alanna approach, turning to her.

“Thank you, sir knight,” he said. “We owe you our lives.”

“I’m no knight,” Alanna replied, sitting herself down on another rock by the fire. She rolled up her trouser leg, wincing again as the fabric brushed the wound. Fortunately, the cuts did not appear to be very deep.

“You’re hurt! Do you need help?”

She shook her head, “I’ll be fine. How’s your friend?”

“The drowners scratched him up all over when they tried to grab him.”

“Can he walk?”

The fisherman looked to his wounded friend, who gave a nod.

“Come with me,” offered Alanna. “I’ve got a fire further from the river. It’ll be safer there, and I have some bandages with my horse for the worst of the scratches.”

The two men agreed, the uninjured one promptly collecting what remained of their equipment which had not been ruined or dropped into the river during the fight, tossing it into a bucket with some fish. He followed the Witcher with the bucket in hand while the man with the tattered clothes walked beside him.

“Thank you again for saving us back there,” the wounded man said. “I’m Davin, and that’s my brother-in-law, Eduard.”

“Just call me Ed,” added the second man.

“I’m Alanna.”

As they returned to the camp, Alanna tossed a few branches into the fire first to keep it going before making for her horse, Cerbin. She retrieved a roll of bandages and took a seat by the fire, wrapping the cloth around her injured calf.

“If you’re not a knight, who are you?” inquired Ed.

“A witcher.”

“She’s one of them sorceresses,” speculated Davin. “She got the drowners off me with some kind of spell, I saw her blast us down with her hand.”

“I’m not a sorceress,” Alanna corrected him. “I know some basic signs, but I hunt monsters for coin.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of your profession!” Ed exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ve got little coin to pay you with. We’re simple fishermen; we’ve got a few silvers at home but that’s about all we can spare.”

The Witcher shook her head, moving over to bandage Davin’s cuts now, “You never hired me to do a job. I heard trouble and came to help. I’d...be happy for what you can spare, but you don’t owe me anything.”

“We caught five fish before those drowners came. We’d be happy to share those with you.”

“Some food would be nice. What brought you outside the walls to fish anyways?”

“Too many boats on the docks. Evening’s the best time for fishing this season, but we don’t have long if we want to make it back before the gates shut. Weather’s warming up this week, so we thought it’d be a good idea to camp out here for the night. We weren’t expecting drowners this close to the walls!”

“Ansell warned us there’s an infestation in the river!” Davin chimed in.

“Well I didn’t think they’d be so close to town!”

“Now you know,” said Alanna as finished wrapping a bandage across the man’s chest. “Your wounds are all superficial. I still suggest you see a healer when you get back into the city though. They can get infected.”

The Witcher rested by the fire as Ed worked on preparing the fish. For a few minutes, she thought that was where the odor of something that smelled like rotting fish came from. Soon, she realized it emanated from her own clothes, a stench that the drowner had left behind when she had struggled with it in the river. The discipline drilled into every witcher prevented her from gagging, though it made her recall the decaying smell of the corpse-like ghoul she had killed during her trials. She wondered if other monsters were similarly foul. Many of them probably were. It was not a very enticing prospect for future jobs.

Fortunately, the scent of roasted fish filled the area before long, suppressing the less pleasant smells. They spent the remainder of the evening eating the freshly caught fish, then slept around the fire through the night. The odor of the drowners still clinging to her clothes made it difficult at first, but Alanna’s fatigue soon caught up with her.

The next morning, the three of them entered the city together, Alanna leading her horse along as she intended to pass through the city instead of staying. She walked with the fishermen to the docks where they parted ways, the two men for their homes and the Witcher towards the bridge. Alanna made it to the square just before the bridge when a notice caught her eye.

It read:

DROWNER EXTERMINATION REQUIRED

For Any Soul Brave Enough to Help

The City of Rinde Shall Offer

FIVE CROWNS Per Drowner Head

Visit Town Hall for More Information

Alanna located and approached the nearest guard, still moving with a slight limp, “Where do I find the town hall?”

“That way,” the guard pointed out. “Down the road, take the second left, then keep going ‘till you’re in the town square. Can’t miss it.”

Following his instructions, the Witcher soon came upon the central square of Rinde. The town hall was a larger building that stood distinct from its neighbours and was easy to spot. Alanna briefly wondered whether she should stable Cerbin but decided against taking the extra walk with her injured leg, instead tying the mare to a post in the square. She figured it was unlikely for someone to steal the horse in the heart of the city.

Alanna entered the town hall and found herself in a room with several benches along the walls, two doors to either side and a staircase leading up. To the side of the staircase, there was an area lined with bookshelves, in front of which sat a paper-covered desk where a finely dressed woman worked. The woman, who seemed to be a town clerk, looked up from her work at the newcomer.

“What can I do for you?”

“I saw there was a reward for drowners,” said the Witcher. “Who do I talk to about that?”

“I can handle it,” the clerk stated. “How many heads do you have?”

“I killed four.”

“Do you have their heads?” asked the finely dressed woman.

“Why would you want their heads?”

“Why, as proof you got rid of them, of course!”

“Two of the fishermen saw it happen,” stated Alanna. “Davin and Eduard.”

“That won’t do,” responded the clerk. “They could be lying for you for a cut of the payment. We need the heads as proof.”

“I fought them last evening. Their bodies have probably been washed away by the tide already.”

“No heads, no reward. That’s the rule.”

Alanna cursed.


End file.
